Freedom Comes
by tarnished glitter
Summary: Maureen has always been dubbed the ditzy drama queen, the one who sleeps with any guy she wants just for her own pleasure. So I thought I'd write a short Maureen piece and take a different approach to that cliche. It's Pre-Rent, very short and very angsty


Disclaimer:  Nope, none of them belong to me. They're products of the late, great Jonathan Larson.

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The screaming from the living room suddenly grows as the slamming of a door resounds throughout the kitchen and Mark stands in front of me now, face bright red, accented by the shiny tears that slide, unnoticed, down his face.

"I don't know I put up with it, Maureen! You're a slut, you know that? I don't know why I put up with you at all!"

I can feel heavy tears stinging my eyelids as I turn and walk quietly out of the apartment. He's drunk, I know, and probably won't remember a word of what he said come morning. Won't remember the incident that caused his anger, won't remember the fact that he walked in on me having sex with Mike, a guy I met at a club last night. 

But this information doesn't help the ache in my heart or the sudden tightening of my throat as I try desperately to keep the tears from spilling out. Because even though he doesn't mean it – or at least he would never say it in a sober and clear state of mind – I know that there's a certain truth to the words… A truth that I myself have known for quite some time now.

A slut. That's what he called me. That's what _everyone_ calls me. It's always "Maureen the slut", or "Maureen the bitch", "Maureen the drama queen", "Maureen the whore." Even if they don't say it to my face I know that that's what they're all thinking. This thing with Mike… this wasn't an isolated incident. Sure, this is the first time I've slept with Mike. But there have been countless numbers of other guys before him. Steve, Paul, Brian… I don't even remember half of them. But the fact that I have sex with over half the guys I meet isn't what makes me a slut. No. The thing that makes me a slut is that it isn't enough for me. I want the girls too.

I tried for so long to ignore it. I'd find myself glancing casually at a woman as she passed me on the street and think, "It's probably nothing. She's obviously a pretty lady, and there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that fact, is there?" But that's the problem. Yes, I find women attractive. But where does thinking someone is attractive turn into attraction? It's a thin line, and one I think I might have crossed.

That's why I do it. That's why I sleep with the guys, why I stay out late night after night hunting clubs, searching for men who'd be willing to have a one-night stand with me. At first I thought it was Mark. I thought maybe he just wasn't doing it for me anymore. So I'd go out, get drunk, and sleep with the first guy who would have me. But he wouldn't do it for me either. So then the next night I'd go out in search of a guy who maybe _would_, but as of now, I haven't found that man.

I have, however, found that woman. Her name is Joanne, and I met her at a party last month. When I'm with her it's like… like this flame has been awakened inside of me, I feel things and see things like I never have before. And I think to myself, "Is this what I've been missing out on all along?"

Still, I try to push the feelings away. I still sleep with guys, I'm still officially dating Mark. And I'm still foolish enough to think that maybe someday I will find that guy.

It's early and there's almost nobody out yet. The streets are empty. So I'm surprised when I suddenly hear the click of high heels approaching. I turn around and, sure enough, a woman with blonde hair wearing black stilettos is walking right behind me. She catches me staring at her and gives me a dirty look before crossing to the other side of the street.

_You're a slut, Maureen._

I can feel the tears once again stinging the corners of my eyelids as I try to swallow the lump rising in my throat as well as the hateful words. It's true, though. Nothing will ever satisfy me; not men, or women.

It's cold out and I stick my hands in the pockets of my thick, leather jacket in an attempt to keep warm. But as I do my hand brushes up against a small, plastic bottle. At first it surprises me and I don't know what it is, but as I pull it out and look at it a grin washes across my face.

They don't know me, none of them. They think I'm just a dumb slut living a happy, perfect life, sleeping with any guy I want, and oblivious to all the problems of the world. But they couldn't be more wrong. Zoloft. I had forgotten about the prescription until now… Two years ago, at a particularly low point in my life, I had gone to see a psychiatrist. Diagnosis: Clinical depression. Prescription: Zoloft. I hadn't realized it at the time, but the answer to all my problems really did lie in this tiny plastic pill bottle. No more men, no more women, no more "Maureen, you're a slut", no more ditzy drama queens for my friends to put up with… no more anything.

I turn around quickly, walking back in the direction in which I came. Going back to my apartment. Mark would be gone by now, probably went home to take care of Roger, and I'll have all the privacy that I need. Fingering the pill bottle in my pocket, for the first time in years, I don't feel like a slut.

~the end~


End file.
